The Witch and the Wayfarer
by LionheartedWritings
Summary: A certain knight cares only for his duty that would prove to be ultimately inconsequential to the rest of his kingdom—finding a cure for Saint Serreta. A witch, who harbors nothing but hatred and cynicism, doubts that one can truly love as he did. On the downswing of the Age of Fire, these are the unsung tales of Alva the Wayfarer and Zullie the Witch.
1. Sweet Miracle of Unquestioning Faith

A/N: Hello! Are you coming from my other story _The Forgotten_? I hope you enjoy this story as well! If you're not, I hope you like what I have to offer and please check out that story, if you will. It is a RWBY/Bloodborne/Dark Souls crossover.

Anyway, I am fascinated by the lore of Alva and Zullie and couldn't help but flesh it out. Obviously, lore in Dark Souls can only go so far, but that gives me the freedom to be creative with their adventures! This can potentially just be a one-shot, but if it gains enough traction, I would love to write more of these two.

Without further ado, I present _The Witch and the Wayfarer_.

* * *

Chapter 1: Sweet Miracle of Unquestioning Faith

The wayfarer walked back to the lone cathedral that resided at the edge of Lordran with an exquisitely crafted curved greatsword resting on his shoulder. His surcoat of a foreign kingdom that had torn long ago fluttered in the wind, but its regality could still be made out by its rich red color and gold embellishments. He could still recall the very first time he had reached the cathedral after having wandered the lands aimlessly. He had fond memories of traveling with no other purpose than to see what the world had to offer. It was all fascinating and he will always remember the people he met on his journey, but no place made him want to stay. He wanted to see more and wander more. It wasn't until he arrived at this lone cathedral did he begin to feel otherwise. He was met by its servants, who welcomed him in open arms if he was there to meet the Saint. The wayfarer had no idea who that saint could be, but he became immediately skeptical. Other than the land of Thorolund, most clerics and the sort he met turned out to be scoundrels under the guise of the holy.

He entered the cathedral to see for himself who this saint could be. The servants bowed their heads to him as he walked by before they continued about their duties, allowing him to observe the building on his own. He found it odd that they were so trusting as to leave him to his own discretion. What if he were an assassin? He thought they were foolish to not consider that, though he kept these thoughts to himself.

"Oh, hello."

The wayfarer turned his gaze to the source of the voice, finding a woman all dressed in white, with gold laces stitched into the seams. Her blond hair fell down to her waist, gleaming in the light that shined through the cathedral's stained glass windows. She offered the gentlest smile, stirring the heart of the man who wanted nothing more than to travel.

"Welcome, traveler. What brings you to this cathedral? I sense that you are a great warrior. You are a long way from the great city of Lord Gwyn." The woman said. In her dress, in her form, and in her speech, the wayfarer detected nothing but elegance.

"Great warrior? You flatter me." The wayfarer chuckled. "You said it yourself. I am a traveler. And I have traveled here. You must be the saint of this cathedral."

She nodded. "I am Saint Serreta. I have very little to offer you here except in the way of shelter. Or perhaps you seek guidance on your journey?"

The wayfarer stared at her silently. None had ever asked him that before. He was usually welcomed to enjoy festivities or asked to aid them in various tasks. Warriors greater than he offered their blades in combat should he ever need it, but none offered guidance. Not even the false saints did so to gain his trust. "I do not know," he found himself uttering.

Saint Serreta smiled once again. "We never do know. Such is the beauty of being human."

The wayfarer nodded slowly, as he picked up the blade from his shoulder, allowing it to rest in both his hands, presenting himself as no danger to the saint before leaning it against a pillar. "Tell me, Saint. Why do you reside here, so far from civilization? Who do you expect to come here?"

"You came to me, did you not, traveler?" She said, matter-of-factly. The saint paced over to one of the windows, the stained glass shining all colors of light onto her figure. She turned her back to him, all too trusting of an outsider such as himself.

The wayfarer sighed lightly in defeat as that answered his question. "That I did." He sat down on one of the cathedral's benches, staring down the statue of Gwyn at the end of the cathedral. The wayfarer removed his helmet, placing it beside him on the bench, revealing unkempt black hair underneath, matted from dirt and sweat from his long journey.

"Those who require my help always find their way here. Such is the workings of fate." Serreta looked back at the man clad in armor, eying him peculiarly. "Perhaps it was fate that brought you here for a bath," she joked.

The wayfarer stared at the woman in disbelief before laughing heartily. He never would have expected a saint of all people to joke in any manner. "Perhaps it did…" He turned his head back to the statue. "But fate does not exist. It was a mere coincidence that I happened here."

"And what is a coincidence if not fate? It is only another word to explain the same concept." Serreta justified as she made her way to him, seating herself next to the warrior.

He looked to the saint, raising an eyebrow as to why someone of her prestige would sit next to a dirty vagabond such as himself. His lips curled into the slightest smile, receiving one in return from her. She was not like the other so called saints he had met. She was real. She was true. "Maybe. I do not know. Such is the beauty of being human."

Serreta held a hand over her mouth, but he could see her shoulders quickly rising and falling from a silent laughter. She lowered her hand when composure returned to her. "Yes, that is right."

The wayfarer chuckled as he shook his head before finally standing up. "Well, this has been a nice stop, but I best get going. There is more to my adventure."

"If that is your wish." Serreta stood up as well before bowing to the warrior. "Blessings upon your journey."

The wayfarer smiled once again. This short resting stop has been more memorable than he had anticipated. He picked up his helmet from the bench and adorned it once more, becoming a faceless vagabond once again. The warrior casually picked up the Murakumo as he made his way back to the cathedral's entrance. He placed a hand against the large wooden doors, but stopped himself from opening it when he heard voices from the other side. The warrior leaned his head against the door to listen.

"This looks like the place."

"I told you. It's just one girl and a bunch of hare-brains that serve her. Easy gig."

"If it's so easy, how come no one's pillaged the place yet?"

"I've heard rumors that everyone just leaves this place alone because the girl is most holy, or some shit like that. She's just a loiter-sack, if you ask me. This is just a long time coming."

"Is something the matter?" Serreta's voice came from over his shoulder.

The wayfarer turned back at the saint, placing a hand on her shoulder. She did not flinch. She was far too trusting. "Hide yourself and the others. I will handle this."

"What is wrong?" She asked, concerned.

"Hide." He said once more, a sternness now in his voice. The saint hesitated before nodding, hurrying off as she spread word to the servants of the cathedral.

The wayfarer turned back to the door and opened it abruptly, knocking over someone from the other side.

"Hey, what the—!" The man on the ground shouted, before cutting himself off after seeing the armored warrior before him, who had an oversized curved sword resting on his shoulder. "Damn it," the bandit cursed as he scrambled back up to his allies. "I thought you said this place didn't have any knights!"

"Hey, I only told you what I knew!"

The knight closed the door behind him before counting them from behind his visor. Five bandits. That was quite a few of them for him to pay attention to while also preventing any from entering the cathedral. He would have to be careful. "Leave this place."

One of the bandits rose his hands in resignation. "I didn't come here looking for a fight, guys! You said this would be easy!"

The other four armed themselves, each carrying a different weapon: a knife, a club, a woodcutting axe, and a smithing hammer. All without a doubt scavenged or stolen. "Don't worry. This will still be easy. It's only one and there's five of us!"

The fifth one gritted his teeth before taking up his crossbow, aiming it at the wayfarer. "I still don't like this." The cowardly bandit fired a bolt at the wayfarer, but the weak construction of the old and neglected crossbow was incapable of firing it at a high enough velocity to pierce the wayfarer's armor. The bolt simply bounced off the breastplate. Sounds of disapproval were shared amongst the other four before they all charged him. The warrior began to slash in front of them to force them to flinch back. When they did just as he predicted, he feinted it, instead allowing the momentum to carry him forward, bashing his shoulder into one of the bandits. His armor-clad body easily broke the bandit's ribs before he was flung back by the force, into the ground. Not wasting a moment, the wayfarer picked up the bandit's knife from the ground, throwing it straight at the throat of the hammer-wielding bandit. The man dropped the smithing hammer to hopelessly clutch at his throat. He gripped the handle of the knife, much to the protest of his allies. "No, don't!" The man pulled it out, the life immediately leaving his eyes as blood spurted out of the wound.

The three left watched in horror before turning their attention to the armored warrior once again. "You bastard!" The axe-wielding bandit began charging forward, pulling the weapon far over his shoulder with both hands as he did so. The wayfarer shook his head at how easy the bandit made it to read the attacks before effortlessly parrying the strike to the side with the back of the Murakumo before a quick twirl of the wrist brought the belly of the blade to the man's neck. The curve of the blade easily sliced across the bandit's neck, bringing him to his knees before falling over, staining the ground crimson as the thick red liquid continued to flow from the fatal cut. He picked up the axe from the ground, ducking an attack of the club-wielding bandit before swinging the axehead into the bandit's abdomen, drawing the head out as much as possible as he pulled it to ensure death. The warrior turned his attention to the crossbow-wielding bandit, who began shaking. Was it from fear? Or perhaps he was itching to kill him.

As he approached the bandit, the wayfarer threw the axe down at the writhing one on the ground, who had been incapacitated by his broken ribs before his skull was caved in. The bandit breathed heavily as the crossbow slipped from his fingers, his knees giving away as well, falling to the ground with it. The wayfarer raised the Murakumo, resting it on the bandit's shoulder, who closed his eyes in anticipation of an execution.

"Stop it!" He heard the saint cry out. He listened to the hurried footsteps behind him, but he did not allow his eyes to leave the bandit. Saint Serreta practically slammed herself against the warrior's back, but he did not budge. She wrapped her arms around his waist in an attempt to pull him away, but to no avail. "Stop it, please!" She cried once more. "No one should have to die…Please, just stop." The wayfarer heard soft sobs as she weakly pulled against his body, pleading that he would stop further bloodshed. He sighed before pulling the blade away from the man's neck, holding it at his side. The saint finally gave up her futile effort and looked at the bandit from behind the wayfarer, before stepping in front of him. "I-I'm sorry. I have nothing to compensate you with. I do not have what you are seeking for. Will you please leave?"

"You…" The bandit began, as he looked up at the saint, wiping tears from his eyes. His face quickly twisted into an ugly rage as he screamed at the top of his lungs. "You killed my friends!" The bandit moved with surprising speed, pulling a knife hidden in his boot and stabbing it towards the saint's side.

The wayfarer, unable to properly deflect the bow, shot his hand in front of the blade. It easily pierced the leather of the glove and through his hand, only stopping at the plate that covered the back. He grimaced from the pain before roaring in anger, curling his fingers around the blade and wrestling it out of the bandit's hand. The warrior kicked the bandit in the chest, knocking him onto his back before stomping into the bandit's neck, making a discernible snapping sound. He took a step away, choosing to leave the knife in his hand to prevent excessive bleeding before looking back at the saint, who covered her mouth at the barbaric sight, but couldn't look away from the corpses he had left behind. There was a long silence between them, only the sound of the wayfarer's heavy breaths to fill the evening air. Finally, the saint chose to speak. "Why did you kill them…?" She managed to quietly ask.

"You are a fool," he growled. "These stampcrabs were right, you are all just a bunch of hare-brains."

"Excuse me?"

"These people had come here to hurt you! They were going to pillage this cathedral, kill all the servants, and kill you. That's not if they rape you first. And what do you do? You place yourself before him with no plans to protect yourself. How naïve can you be?!" The wayfarer scolded, pointing a finger at the woman in the same manner. "And how could you not have anyone to protect you?! A saint should have a knight to serve her and protect her. I do not care if you had never been harmed before—You have to be prepared!" He yelled at the woman, who flinched at his shouting. "What if I hadn't been here?! What would have become of you and this cathedral?!"

"Then do you not think it was fate that brought you here?" She uttered, albeit hesitantly, for fear of the man's ire. The statement brought pause to the wayfarer. "If you prefer, you may call it a coincidence. This was the first time such an incident had occurred…And it was the first time I required someone's aid." The sudden spark of determination in Serreta's eyes were not lost on the wayfarer as she stepped towards him, staring him down unwaveringly. "For the first time, someone came to me, not in their own time of need, but in mine. You are correct. I am naïve of the workings of most of the world outside this cathedral. I believe only in the good nature that I know exists in the hearts of all, but that blinded me from foreseeing that I could put myself and my servants in danger."

Saint Serreta gently lifted the wayfarer's hand before gripping the hilt of the knife. For whatever reason, he trusted that she would do him no harm. She carefully pulled the knife out, the blood immediately beginning to pool in the palm of his hand. The saint tossed the knife into the dirt before placing her hand over his, staining her palm red as well. Without saying a word, her hand began glowing in a brilliant golden light before she pulled it away, revealing the now completely healed hand. The wayfarer rose his hand in the light to study it before touching his palm where the wound once once. A miracle. Except Serreta did not require singing a single tale or a catalyst to direct the power. She was a true saint.

"Traveler."

He returned his gaze to the woman, whose palm was still stained red. The spark in her eyes had not left her. "Please, tell me your name."

The wayfarer stared at her, uncertain of what her intentions were, not that she would be able to tell through his visor. "Alva."

"Alva. You are correct. I need a knight." Serreta took a single step towards, as if she drew all her purpose with it. "Will you be my knight?"

The wayfarer had never been a knight before. He never wished to serve a noble, for it would shackle him to one place. For as long as he could remember, he had been on the road, traveling and seeing the different kingdoms. The thought of settling down had never occurred to him, but something about this woman made him think otherwise. For the first time, he thought that perhaps he had seen enough. "Yes."

"Then, welcome to this cathedral as Sir Alva, the first knight of Saint Serreta." The saint smiled brighter than he had seen before. She uttered two more words quietly that could have easily been lost if the wind were any stronger. "Thank you."

* * *

"Sir Alva!" The voice of one of the cathedral's servants called out to him, breaking him from his thoughts.

The knight looked to the source, finding the cathedral servant he had become most fond of—Grant. He jogged enthusiastically towards the knight, waving at him as soon as he got Alva's attention. The knight laughed heartily at the sight of his friend, clapping him on the shoulder before pulling him into an embrace. "Grant!"

"Sir Alva!" The servant cheered before he took a step back. "You have returned! Were you able to discover any news of the illness?"

The knight sadly shook his head, much to Grant's disappointment. "I talked to the village leaders and heralds in the nearest surrounding towns. They say there have been no reports of any new or mysterious illnesses in all of Lordran."

"I see…" Grant trailed off. The servant turned his back to the knight, walking away before stopping one final time. "Our Lady wishes to see you."

"I will go see her immediately." Alva affirmed, watching the servant nod his head before returning to his duties. The knight sighed, making his way through the cathedral's doors and up a spiral set of stairs to the saint's chambers. He rose his knuckles up to the door, curling his fingers multiple times in hesitation. Before he could knock, he heard the saint's voice from the other side. "Come in, Alva."

The knight pushed the door open, finding the saint sitting up in her bed, offering him a smile. However, it had lost its normal radiance she carried. This smile was somber. "How did you know it was me?" He asked as he closed the door behind him.

"I recognize all of the footsteps that walk in this cathedral. I look forward to yours the most." She said. It lacked her usual playfulness. Now, she said it as if she would never get to hear them again. Alva chose to stand at her bedside, but Serreta grabbed hold of his wrist, trying to pull him down. "Please, sit."

He looked between his armor and the clean, silken sheets. "I am dirty."

"It does not matter. I want you to sit beside me."

The knight nodded, dusting himself off as best as he could before seating himself on the bed with her. He took off his helmet, placing it on the bedside table. He returned his gaze to the saint, who shifted her hand down from his wrist to his hand. Alva frowned as he watched her wrap her fingers around his palm. The knight enclosed his fingers around hers. "How do you feel?"

"I no longer feel sick."

"That is wonderful!" Alva's lips curled into a smile as he rejoiced, but it quickly disappeared as he looked up at Serreta's face, who looked ever more downtrodden. "Lady Serreta, what troubles you?"

"I died, Alva." The saint muttered, her grip tightening around his hand as her eyes stared blankly at her lap.

The knight frowned, not understanding what she meant. She was clearly sitting with him, very much alive. Not lively, perhaps, but alive. She did not appear to be jesting with him either. Serreta would never joke in this manner, so she was either being as cryptic as usual, or there was more to this than meets the eye. "Lady Serreta, what are you talking about?" Alva squeezed her hand in return. "You are right here with me."

"I died, Alva." The saint repeated. "I finally succumbed to the illness…and yet, I woke up." She gripped his hand as tightly as she could, but the dainty woman could only muster so much strength.

"If that is true…is that not a good thing?" He asked, in hopes that perhaps that would be comforting. "What you're describing right now is immortality. That's something even the Gods in Anor Londo lack. There are countless tales of men who went on to search for such a thing."

"No, this is _wrong_." Serreta emphasized, shivering as she did so. "I shouldn't be alive, Alva. If this is what immortality is, I don't want it. I never wanted it. How could anyone want this?"

"Would you not consider this a blessing?" Her knight attempted to assure her.

"No. No, I would not." Serreta finally looked up at him with nothing but pain in her eyes. "This is not a blessing, but a curse." The saint turned slightly to show her back to him before slowly undressing.

"Lady Serre—!" Alva began to exclaim upon the sudden action, but cut himself off when she exposed her bare back to him. Upon her smooth and soft skin was a single blemish that resided in her left shoulder blade—a black gaping hole. The knight studied it silently, but was able to see naught but darkness from the seemingly bottomless pitch-black hole. It was indeed a curse.

"When I woke up, I was cursed with this unsightly thing. I sense the darkness of humanity from it. Everything I have worked for as a saint…and I have been tainted." Serreta said with a soft sigh.

"No, that is not true. You are the best of all of us. No one can disregard that." Alva argued. "This mark does not make you any less of the person you already proved yourself to be. Besides, no one will know about it as long as you keep it hidden."

The saint shook her head. "It does not matter if they do not know. I know. It is not right for a saint, cursed such as I, to tend to those who seek guidance." Serreta wrapped her robe around herself once more.

"Even if you are cursed, who better to come to in their time of need than you?" The knight tried to reassure her again, but it was obvious it was falling on deaf ears when she turned to him.

"Please, Alva. Leave me. Leave this place." Serreta said, but her eyes weren't entirely honest.

"As if I would do that," Alva refused. "I do not care about this curse. I will remain by your side."

"Alva, please. Don't make me beg you. You deserve better than to remain idle here." The saint said woefully.

"Was it not you who said that our meeting was fate? Let me stay." Alva spoke gently.

Saint Serreta stared at her knight, admittedly touched by his unwavering loyalty. She managed a smile as she placed her other hand over his. "Then I will change my request. Please, go find a cure for this curse. It doesn't matter how long it takes. Come back when you find it. I will be waiting for you."

Alva opened his mouth, but hesitated. "That would still mean I would have to leave you."

"Alva, you are the only one who I can trust with this task. You have traversed so many lands before. Who better to seek this cure than you?" The saint reasoned.

There was a long pause as Alva kept his head down, his eyes fixated on their hands held together. "Fine," he finally answered. "I will go find this cure. I swear it on my knighthood." He looked up at the saint with conviction. "I will not idle. I will begin this search immediately." The knight stood up from the bed, almost regretting the decision when his hand left hers. He picked up his helmet, placing it over his head once again and made for the door. "Wait for me."

"I will wait for you."

The knight closed the door behind him, running into Grant right outside. "Oh, good. I was hoping to see you before you left."

"You're leaving again, Sir Alva?" The cathedral servant asked.

"Yes. I am going to find a cure for Saint Serreta. But…I have to know that she will be safe here without me." The knight looked back at the door to her chambers.

"Of course. This is not the first time you have left the cathedral, Sir Alva." Grant reassured.

"This time, I am afraid that I will be gone for quite awhile. Likely far longer than ever before. Please, Grant. Promise me you will keep the Lady safe."

Grant couldn't see his expression through the visor, but never had he heard the knight this serious before. "I swear it, Sir Alva. You have trained us in the way of the sword so that we may all properly serve and protect her. The day has come. Please, trust us."

The knight pat the cathedral servant on the shoulder before walking past him to begin his journey. "Thank you, Grant." And so, Alva the Knight became Alva the Wayfarer once again.

Grant watched the knight leave before knocking on the saint's door. She called for him to come in from the other side before he opened the door. He studied her face carefully, seeing nothing but pain. "There is no cure, is there, Saint Serreta?"

"No, not for a curse like this." The saint admitted.

"Then why did you send him off on a fruitless task?"

"It was the only way to get him to leave this place. A man like that cannot remain idly here. I will not keep him shackled to me. He will leave this place and meet someone irreplaceable. Such is his fate." She offered a smile, as pained as it was. "Someone who will be far more important to him than I."

"You can accept that, Saint Serreta?"

"I can."

* * *

Alva decided the first place he would search for any information regarding the cure for the Undead Curse should be the Great Swamp, which resided on the outskirts of Lordran. It was an inhospitable land, unwanted by all except for those who lived there. The Great Swamp was populated by all sorts of outcasts and exiles. While often overlooked by others, they never shied their eyes away from the outside world. Where better to get information than the place that is always watching? The knight wandered through the Great Swamp, receiving wary stares ever since he entered the decadent area. He couldn't blame them. A knight such as he walking through what was essentially the slums of the world usually did not amount to anything positive for the unfortunate folk living there. Hopefully they would at least give him the chance to speak before jumping to conclusions. The knight stopped at one of the huts, knocking on its door—which was more like poorly nailed planks than a door.

"The fuck ya want?" A raggedy voice called out from inside.

"Excuse me, but I am a knight looking for—"

"Don't care."

Alva sighed, figuring that would be the answer he would receive. "Just tell me what you know. You don't even have to step out of your home."

"Tell ya what I know, eh? You, a knight?" Alva heard the man inside the hut spit at the word. "A knight who got everything just worked out for him, yeah? What, got bored of ya fancy life and came here to mock the rest of us, eh? Fuck off. Comin' to me—to _us_ for _help_?" The man inside the hut scoffed.

"It will only be a moment…" Alva trailed off, knowing he wasn't going to get through to the man either way.

"Did'ja not hear me the first time? I said fuck off! Want me to burn ya? Need a fireball in ya ass to get you to understand?!"

"Alright, alright. I'll be on my way." Alva sighed heavily as he waved his hand off towards the hut as if the man could see it. The knight shook his head, looking down at his feet as he walked away. The sound of an old man's laughter is what got him to look up.

"Oh, don't pay the folk here any mind. How can they take care of outsiders when they can barely take care of themselves?" The old man remarked.

Alva studied the strangely cheery old man for the circumstances of the Great Swamp. His personality was not what the knight was expecting from this place, but he certainly looked the part. The old man wore a blindfold that covered much of his face, yet Alva was certain that the man could see him. Most of those who lived in the Great Swamp adorned themselves with articles of nature, and this old man was no exception. His raggedy attire was a combination of woven cloth and raven feathers, with several feathers sticking out of the collar. "A community only exists when it helps one another."

The old man chuckled. "I agree with you. But they do not love one another because they do not love themselves."

"Does that include yourself, old timer?" Alva asked curiously.

"Not quite, because I'm willing to help you." The old man gave the knight a kind smile. "What brings you to the Great Swamp? Did you come to learn pyromancies?"

"No. I came in search of a cure for the Undead Curse. Do you know it?" Alva asked with hope in his voice.

"The Undead Curse?" The old man made a fearful expression. "I have only heard rumors. Do you know someone who is a afflicted?"

Alva only nodded.

"I see…" The old man shook his head. "I am afraid that I know of no such cure. Until now, I only knew of the Undead Curse as a rumor. I would like to think of myself as one of the more knowledgable people here in the Great Swamp, so I do not believe you will find an answer here."

The knight sighed heavily, but nodded his understanding. "Coming here was a waste of time then. Thank you anyway, old man."

The old man watched as the knight began to walk away before he had a sudden revelation. "Wait, wait!" Alva turned back to the man, hopeful that he would have any information to lead him to his next destination. "There is one here in the Great Swamp who I am certain knows more than I. However, I must warn you, she is ousted even among those who live here."

The knight frowned behind his visor. An outcast among outcasts? "Why is that?"

"She is a witch," the old man answered. "Since the Witch of Izalith became the Bed of Chaos and brought forth the demons, witches have been outcasts from society. The witch who resides here does not take kindly to anyone, but that will not be your only obstacle. The eyes here in the Great Swamp are always watching, and none take kindly to the witch either. If they see you approach her, they will likely take action."

Alva shook his head at how needlessly complicated the situation was. "You don't seem to be unfavorable of witches yourself. Why haven't you done anything about it?"

"Now, now. There is only so much this old man can do. It is up to you young ones, now."

"Sounds like an excuse to me," Alva smirked.

The old man chortled. "Maybe so."

Alva put out his hand. "Tell me your name, old timer. I am Alva."

The old man took the knight's hand in his, shaking it with a smile. "Cornyx. You may find the witch's hut on the highest hill. I wish you luck on your sworn duty."

The knight nodded in thanks before waving the old man off, turning to go search for the witch. The hut on the hill was easy to spot, as it easily stood out from the rugged grasslands and treacherous swamps. He approached the hill, feeling all the prying eyes on him. Alva cursed to himself. He'd rather not have to fight an entire group of people adept at willing fire at their fingertips. The knight finally reached the top of the hill, studying the hut. It contrasted greatly with the others in the Great Swamp. While all the other homes were adorned with articles of nature, this one was thoughtfully built with a solid construction. He raised his knuckles to knock on its door, but a voice sounded from the other side first. "I will not help you, knight."

Alva grumbled. Why did he even allow himself to be optimistic over a witch. He should have expected this response. "Why not?"

"Why must everything require reason?" He heard the feminine voice growl. "You asked me for help, and I gave you my answer."

"I had yet to ask you a thing." Alva corrected.

There was a pause before he heard the witch snicker from behind the door. "I suppose you are correct. Fine. I will humor you."

The door opened, but the witch was sitting at the far end of the hut, across from it. She must have used her magic to open it. The knight stepped inside, looking back to see the door immediately shutting behind him. He made a mental prayer that he would be able to walk out the same way he came.

"Well? Out with it, knight." The witch stood up, approaching him. She stepped into the light, revealing a purple dress with frilled cuffs, more befitting of royalty than one who lives in the Great Swamp. The most noticeable part of her attire was her purple pointed hat, the symbol of the heretical magical crafts. The witch looked up at the knight, giving pause to all of his thoughts. The Great Swamp had more surprises than he had anticipated, but this one tops them all. To think there was a woman whose beauty rivaled that of Saint Serreta resided here. She had short black hair and dark brown eyes that peered into his visor. "Did you not hear me the first time? You are testing my patience."

"Pardon my intrusion." Alva snapped out of his captivation by her beauty, something that was not lost on the witch. "Would you know of any cure for the Undead Curse?"

The witch frowned. "The Undead Curse?" She paced over to a wall where her stave leaned against, picking it up in hand. "You should just go home. Forget this journey."

"What? Why?" The knight asked, bewildered.

"I do not know who sent you on this fool's errand, but such a cure does not exist." The witch looked back to the knight with a smirk. "You were lied to, knight."

Alva curled a hand into a fist. "She would never lie to me."

The witch sneered. "Oh, she doesn't does she? Well, if it makes you feel any better, everybody lies, knight."

"Maybe. But not her." Alva said adamantly.

The witch had difficulty containing her ire. "What makes you so certain that she doesn't lie, knight? You think she's perfect?" She snickered. "Being afflicted with the Undead Curse is as far from perfect as one can get."

Alva immediately pointed the Murakumo at her, his free hand shaking with rage. "Watch your tongue, witch, or you might just lose it."

"Oh, how scary." The witch spoke sarcastically. She pointed her stave at the knight in return. "I will allow you to leave right now and never return to this place. I suggest you do so, because you may never again see the light of day."

Alva wasn't certain he could defeat the witch, who was undoubtedly adept in all manners of magic, particularly dark sorceries. He couldn't risk being defeated here. He still must find the cure for Saint Serreta. The knight lowered his sword and turned to leave. "Goodbye, witch."

She watched him walk away as she returned the stave to lean against the wall. "Goodbye, knight." With a flick of the hand, the door to her hut opened, but the two were greeted by a mob.

"Shackin' it up with the witch now, are ya?" One of the men accused Alva from the mob. The knight recognized that voice as the rambunctious man he first tried to speak to. "We're sick of ya. Leave this place, outsiders!"

Alva stared daggers at them, though it went unnoticed as the visor hid his expression. "I was just leaving."

"We're talkin' about the both of ye," another raggedy man stepped forward from the crowd, pointing a finger behind the knight.

The witch grimaced, opening her mouth to shout at the mob, but stopped when the knight in front of her spoke instead. "I don't see why she has to go anywhere. This is her home."

"We don't care. We want her gone." A woman said, sporting similar garb to Cornyx said. The woman raised a palm, igniting it in flames by simple will. "Step out of the way if you don't want to get burned, too."

"That will not do," Alva said with a steely demeanor, holding the oversized curved sword in front of him. "You all will leave her alone." The witch stared at the knight curiously. Why was he protecting her? This man had absolutely no obligation to her. The only thing he should be caring about is whoever he is searching this cure for, and even then, she doubted that anyone can be as dedicated, or love anyone as he seemed to.

The knight's response earned snickers among the mob before them. "Fine," the woman grinned. "Then burn with her!" The woman raised her ignited palm towards the knight, blasting a cone of fire. Alva heard hurried footsteps behind him, a stave suddenly shooting into his peripherals. Dark magic engulfed the stave before the knight and the witch were surrounded by a distorted space. The fire reflected against the dark energy, bouncing straight back at the caster. "Cuculus!" Some of the mob exclaimed as the woman was felled by her own pyromancy, but fortunately for her, her damp clothes from the swamp were inflammable.

"Okay, knight. Prove me wrong." The witch whispered into his ear before she began running off.

"Wha—Hey!" Alva looked to the woman who was already making her escape, the knight beginning to scramble after her. He looked behind him, seeing the even more furious mob chasing after them. "Persistent lot," he grumbled.

Ahead of him, he saw the witch suddenly stop and turn around, pointing her stave in his direction. "Get behind me, knight!"

Alva watched the stave channeling energy at its tip, forcing him into a full sprint. A stave in the hands of any competent sorcerer is far more intimidating than a crossbow. A stave wielded by a witch? Downright terrifying. He came to a full stop as soon as he was behind the witch, looking back to see her plan fall into action. The stave emitted a dark fog that stretched out in from of them, bringing the pursuing mob to a grinding halt. They each made attempts to cover their noses and mouths from the mist, but they showed its affects as soon as they came into contact with it. The Great Swamp inhabitants began keeling over and wheezing, clearly having been poisoned by the dark mist. The witch turned back to the knight with a smirk before calmly walking away. Alva took one final glance at the coughing mob, scanning for Cornyx. After being satisfied by not seeing the old man among them, the knight took after the witch.

* * *

The two had yet to leave the Great Swamp, but they were far enough from the main locality where most of its inhabitants reside. Night had fallen upon them and the weather had chosen to take a turn for the worse, forcing the pair to seek shelter. It wasn't long before they were able find an alcove that provided enough protection from the elements. Alva immediately slumped against the stone wall before sliding onto the ground with heavy sigh. The witch followed behind him, raising her stave in the air, casting a sorcery that flicked all of the dirt and grime off the both of them. The knight looked down at his cleaned armor. "Thank you," he tiredly managed.

The witch didn't say anything in return, instead silently seating herself across from the knight. She stared at the wayfarer, her eyes reminding him that of hickory—a beautiful dark brown, yet unyielding. The silence between them was only filled by the sounds of the rain echoing into the alcove before the witch chose to speak. "Why?"

"Why?" Alva repeated as he picked up the helmet from off his head, letting out a soft sigh as the cool air met his face.

"Why did you stay back there? You had no obligation to me. You could have left. You should have. That was the logical thing to do." The witch said, her eyes unchanging as they continuously inspected the man.

Alva wondered the same thing. Was it his sense of honor? That couldn't be it. A knight he may be, he was only relatively recently anointed as one for the Saint. At heart, Alva knew he was still that same vagabond. His own azure hues stared back at the witch, who was surprisingly waiting for his answer patiently. Ultimately, the knight only shrugged. "Why must everything require reason?"

The witch stared at the man in disbelief, a snort escaping her before she began to laugh. "Are you absolutely mad? You took on all those pyromancers without a plan?"

"It worked out, didn't it?" Alva shrugged again.

"Right, because you handled that all by yourself," the witch sarcastically responded, pulling the pointed hat from her head and placing it in her lap. The man was taken by her appearance once again, something that again, was not lost on the witch.

"Of course." Alva affirmed, nodding his head. He watched as the witch's lips slowly curl into a smile before a laugh escaped her once again. The knight found himself laughing with her. It was contagious. Silence fell between them again before he spoke again. "What did you mean back there? You said _prove me wrong_."

The witch smirked before she began to crawl up towards the knight. "What are you doing?" Alva asked with a frown. The witch pressed her body against his as she leaned her face against his ear. "I told you, there is no cure. Why don't you forget about her. Just think about me."

The knight pushed her away as he himself leaned in the opposite direction. "You must mistake my benevolence for carelessness. I have not forgotten what my sworn duty is."

The witch shook her head as she sat herself in front of the man. Her smirk changed to a small smile. She didn't believe there was anyone who was dedicated enough to continue an impossible task. No man who could love one enough to do so without question. And yet, here he was right in front of her. Maybe she would allow herself to believe in him. "What is your name?"

The knight looked at the witch strangely. "Alva."

"Alva. My name is Zullie. I will aid you in your search for this cure."

* * *

A/N: This chapter's title is a quote from Kurt Vonnegut's _Mother Night_ , "Say what you will about the sweet miracle of unquestioning faith, I consider a capacity for it terrifying and absolutely vile."

I typically do not explicitly say what magic spell was used in the chapter. In case it was confusing, these are the hexes that Zullie used in this chapter: Twisted Barricade; Dark Fog.

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it as much as I liked writing it. Please, let me know if you would like me to continue this. It would be super motivating!


	2. Not to Drink Among Hard Drinking People

A/N: I'm glad that there's at least a few people who enjoy this story. I am very proud of it! I encourage that guest reviewer who intended on writing about this pair to do so anyway. Tell your story!

* * *

Chapter 2: Not to Drink Among Hard Drinking People

Alva woke to the sounds of birds chirping in the air, immediately feeling the humidity of the swamp latching on to his face. He looked at his surroundings, finding himself alone in the alcove. "I've been abandoned," he said with a heavy sigh.

"You have that little faith in me?" The knight heard a voice say. He looked towards the exit, the witch suddenly appearing with her arms crossed as she leaned against the cold stone surface.

"I don't have faith in most, especially conniving witches." Alva said not out of malice, but as if stating a mere fact. The knight stood up, brushing off the dust that had gathered on his surcoat. Zullie twisted her face in annoyance as she picked up her stave that leaned against the cave wall next to her. She gripped it tightly, tempted to fire a spell at the knight before choosing not to with a soft sigh. "I see that you were awake before me," Alva spoke up.

"Clearly," the witch said, hickory eyes glancing at the knight as he approached her. "As if I would let a man wake up before me."

"You have that little faith in me?" Alva repeated her question to him.

"Yes." Zullie answered quickly. "I did say that I would aid you in this quest. But I also said to prove yourself to me." She turned to the knight, peering into his azure hues. "And despite the fact that I have been guarding this entrance while you slept, what do you do as soon as you wake? You make a grand display of your insolence." The witch said bitterly. Perhaps she was wrong, as initial impressions usually were. She wondered why she allowed herself to believe in him. She thought that someone with a capacity for love as he seemingly did for his saint could even accept a witch like her. She was wrong.

"Alright, alright." Alva rose his hands in surrender. "Look, I'm sorry. These lands are sprawling and I do not know where next to venture. It frustrates me that I cannot fulfill my promise alone, but it is not about my pride. It is about finding this cure and saving Saint Serreta," the knight pleaded.

Zullie eyed the knight peculiarly. She had been wondering why he chose to stand his ground the day before. No one had ever cared for her before, so this total stranger to suddenly fight for her sake had admittedly distraught the woman. While the knight was asleep, Zullie had been mulling over what it meant. He said there was no reason, but after giving it some thought and having a night's rest had cleared her head. The knight's words when he woke all but confirmed it for her. Everyone was selfish and only did what was convenient for them. He believes that she could help him—a means to an end. "I told you that there is no cure."

"You said you would help me!" Alva pointed an accusing finger at the witch.

"I said that on a whim!" Zullie bit back, gripping onto her stave tighter. "I already told you, didn't I? This cure doesn't exist. Your dear _saint_ ," she practically spat the word. "Sent you on a fool's errand."

"Then call me a fool!" Alva shouted, picking up his helmet in both his hands as he stared into its visor. "I absolutely will find this cure. I must. I will do so with or without your aid, witch." He pulled the helmet over his head before gripping the Murakumo, allowing it to rest on his shoulder.

Zullie watched the man gather his things and begin walking past her. Despite everything she said, he was still hellbent on searching for this nonexistent cure anyway. Why? There was no logic in it. If she was his best chance at finding this cure and she told him that it was a fruitless endeavor, what drives him to continue his search? The witch bit her lip in frustration. Was it that love he apparently holds for the saint? Was it love that drives him so? She refused to believe it. Love doesn't exist. It can't. If it did, what made her so much less deserving of it than the rest of the world? All sorts of men and women prancing around without a care, for they had each other. And what does she get? Nothing. She was a witch who never had anything. Her parents abandoned her when she began practicing sorceries on her own, calling it heretical for not attending one of the 'great' schools of magic. She was left to fend for herself in this callous world and when she thought she finally made a place for herself, she was just as quickly cast aside when the Witch of Izalith made a grave mistake. Zullie then found herself in the Great Swamp, a place for outcasts and heretics to call home, and even there she was hated. Why did she deserve it? Was it her fate to be hated and unloved? What made others more deserving of life's gifts than her? Did they work harder for it? Did they fight for it like she had to fight for her place in the world? No. It was a privilege they were granted upon being born. She knew that. Love doesn't exist. It was a term those more privileged than she made up to feel good about themselves and cast others aside. For they had all of life's gifts and needed _love_ to make their lives less boring.

The witch stared at the knight's back as he walked away, bitter that he was privileged enough to chase after a fleeting concept such as love. Jealous that there was someone who could sit around uselessly and garner the unconditional _love_ of this knight. Angry at herself for being undeserving of all such things simply for existing. She will show him just how fleeting love is. She will show him how it is easily replaced with any other pleasure to occupy oneself. "Knight."

Alva stopped in his tracks, turning to the source of the voice. "What is it, witch?"

"You are walking in the wrong direction of Catarina," Zullie said bluntly as she pulled the brim of her pointed hat down to cast out the sun as she began walking away. A kingdom of merriment, festivities, and drinks. It is the perfect place full of distractions to keep him from his quest. He will enjoy everything Catarina has to offer and will forget all about his so called love.

"So you are helping me after all." Alva chuckled as he began following the woman outfitted in purple. Of all the places they could journey to next, he likely would not have chosen the kingdom of the peculiar onion knights. "Why Catarina?" Was she trying to deceive him?

"It is a powerful kingdom that holds many festivities—quite the attraction for all from these sprawling lands you speak of." Zullie reasoned, though it was all to convince the knight to go and lose himself in pleasure. "Where better to seek answers than the amalgamation of all these lands?" She glanced back at the knight, who was pondering on it. Zullie faced ahead once again, smirking to herself.

"Yes, I suppose that makes sense." Alva nodded in agreement. "Catarina hosts all sorts of celebrations, mostly as an excuse to keep the drinks flowing. It garners a lot of revenue as travelers from all over visit to join in the festivities. Not only will there be all sorts of people who might know of a cure, but they will also likely be drunk. That will make it easier to get an answer from them." The knight ultimately reasoned it himself, doing all the work for her.

The witch struggled not to laugh, holding a hand over her mouth to contain it. What a foolish man.

"Is something the matter?" Alva asked as he watched the woman.

"Ah, no, no." Zullie waved from over her shoulder. "I am just trying to bear with this disgusting swamp is all."

The two eventually ventured out of the Great Swamp, entering the territory of the kingdom of Catarina. Zullie was simply relieved to be out of the damp and humid swamp, now stepping onto the pavement of an established kingdom. She breathed in the fresh air before letting out a long sigh. Alva watched her curiously as he followed just a few steps behind the woman. The seemingly content woman now was such a stark contrast from the witch earlier. It was bizarre to see just how intimidating she could be and then witnessing how she was in a calm state. It was almost enough to make him forget that she is a witch. "You don't miss your home?"

"You call that a home?" Zullie scoffed, looking back at the knight. "As if I could call the place that shunned me home."

"Then why did you stay there?" Alva asked curiously.

Zullie turned to him with a frown, causing the knight to sigh softly as to what he said this time to irritate her. "Are you so much of an imbecile that you cannot even figure that out?"

"I am only trying to make conversation. No harm in that, is there?" Alva said nonchalantly.

"You don't see the value in silence." Zullie said in annoyance as she turned back around and continued to walk. Alva sighed before following along. Zullie briefly glanced over her shoulder before letting out a steady breath out of her nostrils. "Where else would a witch such as I turn to? Izalith?" She laughed bitterly. "It is because of those arrogant _witches of Izalith_ that the rest of us are despised."

"I believe it was only _the_ Witch of Izalith that caused that. Her daughters should not be blamed." Alva argued.

"They had the power to stop her from that foolish act," Zullie asserted. "The only solace to be gathered from this is that the Witch of Izalith burned away from her failure."

"Don't you think that is a little harsh?" Alva proposed. "She was a Lord who tried to the right thing—the first to act at that. You should—"

Zullie suddenly spun round to him, pointing her stave directly in front of his visor. "Do not tell me how I should or should not feel, knight." She retorted. "You are free to think what you will, but you do not suffer from the consequences of her arrogance like I do. Don't ever tell me that my feelings are wrong."

Alva could feel the magic emanating from the stave before she lowered it to her side, turning around once again to continue their journey. "I understand," he said with a small sigh of relief.

The witch allowed herself some moments to compose herself before finally speaking once more. "Good." Zullie looked up at the blue sky full of white, puffy clouds. She had almost forgotten what that looked like from all her time spent in the Great Swamp. "It was because of that Witch that I had nowhere else to go. I ended up in the Great Swamp after being outcasted from every single place I went. And even there, it was proved to me just how unforgiving the world could be." She wondered to herself why she was speaking so much. Why was she telling him anything? Sharing this information served little purpose for either of them. Yet, she felt as if a weight—however small it may be—was lifted from her. Perhaps she simply missed hearing herself talk. "That should satisfy you, knight. No more questions about me."

"If we are going to be traveling together, it only makes sense to get to know each other better." Alva said, attempting to be amicable.

Zullie glanced back at the knight, a single brow raised in curiosity. "Oh, we will be getting to know each other very well," she said with a mischievous smile.

Alva wanted to ask what she meant by that, but his attention was grabbed by two figures they were approaching on the road.

"Halt!" One of them called, raising a hand to stop them as he stood in the center of the road. Zullie crossed her arms, gripping her stave tighter in preparation. Alva walked past her, casually waving at the guards.

"Alva? Is that you?" The guard grinned as the knight approached him, stretching out his arms in a welcoming gesture. "I knew you'd be back for drink!" He laughed. "You even brought someone with you this time. Is it your girl?" The guard joked before he looked past Alva, his face turning stern.

The second guard gripped the hilt of the arming sword at his waist, glaring at Zullie, who appeared more amused than anything. "Alva, what are you doing with a witch."

The knight raised both his arms in front of him in an attempt to ease the tension. "There shouldn't be a problem, right? She's with me."

"Witches in any kingdom are to be arrested. Were you unaware of that, Alva?" The first guard stated, though his eyes remained locked onto Zullie, who was slowly becoming more annoyed. She made herself appear relaxed, though she remained observant and wary as always. If she just took only a few paces back, she could take out all three of them with a single hex. However, she wanted to see just what the knight would do this time.

"I was unaware of that," Alva said as he glanced back at Zullie, who shrugged and mouthed the words _I forgot_. He turned back to the guards, knowing full well that she chose to omit that bit of information. "I know I am asking a lot from the both of you, but please, just look the other way."

"If it wasn't for those witches, my cousin wouldn't be putting his life on the line to fight demons!" The second guard lashed out, pulling his arming sword from its scabbard.

"I am sorry for the circumstances, but that is not her fault." Alva was wondering if he should unhook the Murakumo from his back now. "Please, she is helping me. Saint Serreta has fallen ill."

The two guards seemed to relax, their anger being replaced with sympathy as they slowly lowered their weapons. "Has she? I-I'm sorry. She has done a lot for my family." Seeing how quickly they calmed down simply from hearing the saint's name annoyed Zullie. How can anyone be so beloved that they would drop all of their anger in a second?

"Yes. Which is why I am asking for you to overlook this." The knight glanced back at her before looking at the guards once again. "This witch is helping me find a cure for Saint Serreta. Please, I need her." Zullie couldn't help but smirk from hearing those words. It was interesting to hear that anyone _needed_ her, though she didn't allow herself to be troubled by it. She knew he was only keeping her around for as long as he deemed she was useful to his cause. Once they're in the banquet halls of Catarina, he will forget all about what his cause even was.

The two guards looked between each other before they both let out a defeated sigh. They stepped to the side of the road, allowing them to pass. "Fine. We both owe the Saint at least this much."

"Thank you." Alva nodded his gratitude. Zullie confidently strutted past all of them with a sly smile over her face.

"Hey, witch. You should take off that hat or the both of you will be in a lot of trouble when you reach Catarina Castle!" One of the guards called, but he was only ignored.

"Thanks for the tip." Alva waved farewell to the two guards before walking past them as well, following the witch.

"I have to admit," the first guard said after being certain the two were out of earshot. "It's too bad that fine woman is a witch." The other guard only shot him a look of disapproval.

* * *

The road Alva and Zullie were taking would lead them straight to Catarina Castle. Alva was always impressed with their pavement and road system in comparison to other kingdoms. When he traveled all of the lands, it was Catarina's roads that were most intuitive. Likely because of all the wealth the kingdom has attained from their popular and frequent festivities that they could afford to develop it. It only in turn serviced the kingdom further, as the intuitive road system facilitated more trade and made it easier for travelers to reach Catarina Castle to join in the merriment—or rather spend their money.

"Aren't you popular?" He heard the witch say, breaking him from his train of thought.

"Am I?" The knight said more as a statement than a question.

Zullie slowed down her pace to walk next to him. "Yes. Those morons seemed overjoyed to see you." Quite in contrast to herself. "Your Saint seems to strike a similar effect as well." She added, hiding her disdain for the both of them behind aloofness.

"They are not morons," Alva sighed. It seemed that he was going to have to get used to the insults she casually tossed around. "And I happened to have met them the last time I had visited Catarina."

Zullie cursed mentally. She had not anticipated that he may have already been to Catarina. That seemed like something worth mentioning when she initially brought it up. However, they were already so close to their destination. It was too late to turn back now. She simply had to hope that this time, he will be enthralled by the wonders the kingdom has to offer.

"As for Saint Serreta," Alva continued. "Many have journeyed the lands to visit her cathedral, simply from word of mouth. Her name had spread far as more and more would return to their homes and speak of the good she had done for them. It would actually be abnormal for one not to know her. She truly is the image of all who wish to do good to aspire to be."

"I see." Zullie pulled the brim of her hat further down to hide her resentment. So he was calling her abnormal. That was the truth, but it still irritated her. And there it was again—all this praise for Saint Serreta. What made that woman so much better than her? Why should anyone aspire to be this Saint? Why should she? What was wrong with her? She doubted that this Saint had to fight for her existence like she did. Life was so unfair. Hickory eyes glanced at the knight who was staring at her. That was why she had to even the odds.

"Those guards were right, witch." Alva began. "They recognized you so quickly as witch because of that hat. Remove it." He believed it to be a simple request. Though, when she looked up at him with fury in her eyes, he almost wished he hadn't said anything.

"I refuse." She said between clenched teeth. She knew the pointed hat was the symbol of heretical magic crafts of witches. How could she not? It was what made them easily recognizable as witches. If she took it off, she knew life would immediately have less obstacles for her, for the only chance of anyone finding out the truth was if she used a hex. However, if she took it off, it would be as if she was throwing away everything she had fought for. She was a witch and deserved to exist just as much as everyone else. Despite the numerous challenges she had faced and how bitter it made her, not once had she thought she wanted to be something else. This is who she is.

"I cannot keep defending you like I did back there. When we reach that castle, they will arrest you immediately. And I will not be able to keep them from doing so." Alva tried to reason. "If you get yourself locked up because you are too stubborn to take off that hat, I cannot save you. Do you understand? I cannot risk myself getting imprisoned as well."

Zullie sneered at the knight. He continuously kept proving himself to be nothing but self-serving. All he cared about was this quest for a foolish cause. In the moment she would show herself to be inconvenient to the man, he would leave her to the dogs. So much for needing her. It only made her want to ruin the knight even more. However, if she was to seduce him during the festivities in Catarina and distract him from his quest, than she would have to remove her hat to gain entry. She hated the idea that she was complying to his demand, but this was a sacrifice she had to make if she did not want her plans to fall through. She turned her face away from Alva with a heavy sigh, lifting her free hand in the air before snapping her fingers. Alva watched as the witch's hat transformed into a veil, the regal purple cloth draping over her head. "Are you satisfied, knight?"

Alva nodded slowly as he studied the veil. As long as it wasn't the pointed hat, it should do. "Yes, thank you." He wondered why she resisted to what was—at least what he thought was a simple request. Perhaps she only did so because she didn't like him. That much was clear. Even now, she didn't actually remove that hat, rather only transformed it. Of course, that was enough, but it was obvious that it was a form of malicious compliance.

Zullie shook her head, mostly to herself than the knight. That was the first time she was thanked for anything. Too bad it was for these circumstances—and how disingenuous it was.

"State your business." The Castle guard said, though his attention was elsewhere.

"To take part in the festivities, of course." Alva stated the obvious.

The guard looked up from the papers he was reading, looking between the two. He raised a brow at the sight of the veiled woman, but chose not to ask any questions. The guard assumed it was this knight's bride. He has seen quite a few travelers come to Catarina to celebrate their marriage. He has seen most of those same travelers end up breaking their vows once they fooled around in Catarina. "You two are a little late, then."

"Late?" Alva asked. "How could we be late?"

"Today's festival is a tournament," the guard stated tiredly. "It had already begun earlier."

"Alva!" They heard a jolly voice call. Zullie rolled her eyes at the popularity of the knight, though it went unnoticed as her veil obscured her face. They turned to the source of the voice, finding one of Catarina's peculiar onion knights waving at them—or Alva, rather.

Alva's confused expression quickly turned to fond recognition as his lips curled into a grin. "Siegmeyer!"

Zullie turned away from them as she held a hand over her mouth to contain her laughter. No matter how many times she sees the ridiculous armor of the Catarina knights, it never failed to make her laugh. The onion knight walked over to them with a Zweihander casually resting on his shoulder, jollily shaking Alva's hand before turning to the guard. "Didn't you know this fine gent is participating in the tournament?"

"I-Is he, Sir Siegmeyer? I didn't know…" The guard began haphazardly flipping through the papers he was carrying, somewhat panicking that he had made a mistake. If the festivities were interrupted and it came back to him, there was no doubt in his mind they would make a spectacle out of him. He had seen it happen before.

"Of course, he is!" The onion knight clapped the guard on the back. "Why else would he be here?" Alva looked at his friend before smirking behind his visor. "Come on, let him through. No need to make them any more tardy," Siegmeyer gestured for the guard to step aside.

"R-Right," the guard quickly stepped aside, nodding apologetically to the three. Zullie struggled to contain herself, finding the whole situation to be rather amusing. Watching that guard squirm under pressure was quite the sight to see. After the three walked through the castle wall's entrance and made some distance away from it, the witch finally allowed her laugher to escape her.

Alva looked at the witch curiously before turning to Siegmeyer. Before he could say anything, the onion knight let out a hearty laugh as he clapped Alva's shoulder several times. "You got yourself a bride, Alva!"

"Wha—" The wayfarer frowned before quickly realizing he was referring to the witch. He glanced to the woman, who only seemed to find more amusement in the statement as she laughed some more. The knight sighed to himself when he realized the misunderstanding. Of course, veils were commonly associated with marriage, so it was understandable why Siegmeyer would make the assumption. It would take far too much explaining to explain otherwise and he risked outing her as a witch, so the knight chose to go along with the misunderstanding. "Ah, yes. This is my fiancé." Before the onion knight could ask any more questions, he quickly changed the subject. "So, I am taking part in the tournament now, am I?"

"Oh, no," Siegmeyer waved it off while shaking his head. "I only said that because it was obvious you were trying to get inside. I could do that much for a dear friend. What brings you back to Catarina anyway, lad? Last I recall, you were too busy with the adventuring life."

Alva looked around them to make sure there were no eavesdroppers before speaking. "I am here searching for a cure to the Undead Curse. Saint Serreta has been afflicted with it," he spoke solemnly.

"Heavens," Siegmeyer trailed off wistfully. "I have heard rumors of it on my own travels as of late. I do not know of any cure," he shook his head. "I hope that dear Saint is holding up well. It would be terrible to see another good soul leave us."

Zullie crossed her arms impatiently. Every time that Saint is brought up, everyone looks downtrodden. It made her furious.

"What makes you think you will find it here, Alva?" Siegmeyer asked him.

"Well, not that I would necessarily find it in Catarina," Alva began. "This Castle receives countless visitors every day. There has to be somebody here that knows something and lead me to my next destination."

"This isn't very romantic, love." Zullie called sarcastically.

The knight ignored her, shaking his head. Siegmeyer only chuckled. "Now I understand, Alva. However, they may not be too receptive of you pestering them during the banquet after the tournament. They want to drink and have fun, not answer questions."

"The idea was to ask them while they are drunk, perhaps when they are more receptive?" Alva suggested, albeit somewhat disheartened.

"No, that will not do. Drunk as they will no doubt be, they will want nothing to do with a no-name adventurer asking them questions. They won't give you the time of day, I am afraid." Siegmeyer shook his head, much to the knight's disappointment. "However," the onion knight began hopefully. "That could easily change if you win the tournament."

"What?" Alva said more as a statement than a question. He had no intentions in taking part in needless fights.

"Consider it, Alva. If you participate in the tournament and win, no one in their right mind would deny the champion from speaking to them!" Siegmeyer jovially persuaded.

Alva pondered on it as his eyes wandered back to the witch. He saw her smirk through the slit of the veil before opening her mouth to speak. "You should do it, dear." She added for the sake of appearances in front of the onion knight. "If it means that you will be able to talk to them without getting a drink thrown in your face, then by all means." Zullie looked forward to watch this man have to fight for the right to even speak to these alcoholics, only to see how he would react when all of his effort was for naught. And then, when he is weak and vulnerable, she will have him right under her thumb.

The knight looked at the witch peculiarly before finally conceding. "Alright, you have convinced me. I assume the tournament is in the direction of all the cheering."

"Right you are, dear friend." Siegmeyer clapped the knight on the back once again. "Now, I will be going now. I have been away from home for far too long. I have missed my wife and child terribly."

"Ah, you have told me about them." Alva noted.

"That I have. I will make sure to come find you at the banquet after the tournament so you can meet them. Until then, lovebirds!" Siegmeyer let out a hearty laugh before turning to leave.

The two were left alone in the castle's courtyard with the sounds of distant cheers to fill the air. "Lovebirds," Alva scoffed at the idea of him being with the witch.

"You don't feel the love in the air?" Zullie teased before walking in the direction of the clamor. "Is this not the music of love?"

"More like the ballad of boneheads," Alva remarked as he walked beside her, earning a snort from the witch. He couldn't help but smirk to himself, finding the reaction rather charming. When she wasn't actively hostile towards him, she radiated charisma.

"So, Sir Popular Knight," Zullie began. "Care to explain how you knew that onion knight?"

"I also met Siegmeyer the last time I arrived at Catarina Castle," Alva explained. "However, he chose to adventure with me for some time afterwards until he had to go back home to his family."

"Did he travel with you while wearing that absurd armor?" The witch snickered. "You must have been a laughing stock."

"Oh, all of the bandits we encountered laughed. None of them are laughing anymore," Alva chuckled. "That armor is actually quite effective. I have yet to see a blow that was not deflected by it."

Zullie only shook her head. The two arrived at the large stadium where Catarina held their tournaments and the like, pushing past the crowd to reach the front. Alva leaned against the railing, looking down into the arena as the cheers and jeers of Catarina's patrons nearly drowned out the sounds of the clashing weapons. Alva studied the two combatants: One was a knight from an established family, as indicated by the crest on his surcoat and shield. He was trained, but it was obvious that he never had a day of real combat experience in his life. The knight held his engraved arming sword in front of him, as most beginners did. Effective in certain scenarios, but not quite as a neutral stance. He held the shield at an angle—as he should to deflect blows away, but his grip was wavering as he panted heavily. The newbie knight's opponent on the other hand was leagues above him. The knight's opponent wielded a lucerne hammer—a polearm that consisted of three pronged head: a hammer on end, a spike on its opposite side, and a longer spike that extended at the top. Alva recognized it the extremely versatile weapon, though it took immense skill to use it to its full potential. However, he did not doubt its wielder, who held it close to his shoulder with confidence. The lucerne-wielder must be a mercenary, for his armor bore no insignia. It consisted of plate armor breastplate, vambraces, greaves, and a visored barbute helmet that was no doubt scavenged on the battlefield as its victor. Where plate armor was lacking was covered by a mail hauberk underneath.

The knight continued to hold his arming sword in front of him to gauge the distance between the two while they circled each other. The mercenary took a careful step forward before extending the lucerne forward, knocking the sword aside. Before the knight could return to that stance, the mercenary took another step forward, swinging the hammer end to his side. The hammer made a noticeable dent into breastplate of the knight, causing him to wince. Realizing that he was failing in the defensive, the knight began to rush forward, keeping his body turned and low with his shield to cover him. However, his inexperience showed as the mercenary used the range of the polearm to keep him at bay, forcing the knight to reconsider. If he continued as he did, the lucerne threatened to pierce his armor or causing blunt trauma. In that moment of hesitance, the mercenary swung the other end of the polearm into the knight, forcing him to raise his shield to defend it. Instead of following through with the attack, the mercenary feinted it—a technique usually reserved against clearly inexperienced opponents—instead swinging the lucerne around and hooking its head around the knight's ankle. The mercenary pulled the polearm back, tripping the knight before thrusting its spike down towards him. However, the mercenary stopped at the very last moment, hovering the weapon just above the knight's throat, making it clear who the victor was. The referee walked towards them from the side of the arena, looking between the two. The crowd fell silent, awaiting the referee's call. After a few moments of silence, the referee turned towards the crowd. "The winner is Leo, the sellsword!"

The mercenary pulled the polearm away, sticking the butt of the weapon into the ground before raising the visor of the helmet with a heavy sigh, revealing the person behind the visor to be a woman. The sounds of the crowd were once again a mix of cheers and jeers, likely the difference between the upper-class and the lower-class: Those who were unable to accept a mercenary winning against a young knight from an established family, and those who were proud to see 'one-of-their-own' as the victor.

"I find it hard to believe that this is enjoyable for the lot of you," Zullie said, leaning against her stave that she planted into the ground. "I suppose I should not be surprised, considering just how barbaric all of you are."

"All of us?" Alva mused.

"All of you." She reaffirmed.

"We move on to the last battle of the tournament," the referee announced. "The fight that you all have been waiting for! Leo, the sellsword, will now face the long reigning champion—the greatest of the Berenike knights—"

Alva frowned, as he recognized the description of the champion immediately. If it is who he think it is, than no one other than the Four Knights of Gwyn would be able to defeat him—and Alva wondered if even the Lord's personal guard would be able to best him in a duel.

"Black Iron Tarkus!" The referee called, immediately met with unanimous cheering from the crowd, much to Zullie's annoyance.

A hulking figure walked forth from an entrance in the side of the arena. Stepping into the light revealed the giant of a man, clad in blackened plate armor that had seen much wear from countless battles. By all appearances, the armor should be impossible to wear from the sheer weight, yet the Berenike knight proudly walked into the arena without showing any signs of being over-encumbered. What was far more impressive was the weapon he wielded—an oversized greatsword that dwarfed even the likes of the zweihander that was popular amongst mercenaries. Everything about the knight exuded an aura of strength. The black-ironclad knight approached slowly approached the mercenary after the referee announced the match's start. Leo let out a tired sigh before pulling her visor down, circling the infamous knight as she held the lucerne close to her shoulder for a quick blow. Tarkus used the immense range of his greatsword to thrust the weapon forward, outreaching even that of her polearm. She rolled aside, though it was noticeable that her moves were slowing down. The mercenary made sure to straighten herself up quickly and out of the knight's reach. "Is this how you kept your title, Tarkus? Lounging about while your challengers tire themselves out beforehand?" She scoffed. "To think that I respected you."

Her words must have angered the Berenike knight, for he quickly took a few steps forward before making a large overhead swing. Leo made a careful step to the side, having predicted the attack, countering with a side swing of her own. The spike on the opposite side of the lucerne hammer pierced the armor of the knight, feeling it meet flesh on the inside. Tarkus quickly lifted the mighty sword from the ground, but the mercenary had already rolled away. Kneeling on the ground, Leo thrusted the lucerne's spike forward, though this time it lacked the power to pierce through the thick armor. Instead, the weapon slid to the side. Tarkus made a sweeping horizontal attack with his greatsword. With no other option, she leaped over the incoming blow before slamming the hammer end of the lucerne into the knight's right arm. The pain forced Tarkus to use the two-handed sword in his off-hand, much to Leo's fortune. The Black Iron knight made a diagonal slash towards the mercenary, but she was able to deflect the weaker blow against her vambraces before heaving the lucerne high above her head and slamming it down into the face of the helmet. The crowd fell silent from what seemed like a decisive blow, yet the giant of a man still stood. Tarkus merely looked down at the mercenary, lifting his greatsword over his shoulder. Leo readied herself for the worst before Tarkus spoke for the first time, surprising everyone. "I forfeit."

The stadium was locked in a stunned silence before the heckling began, disapproving of the anticlimactic fight. The man known as Black Iron Tarkus lifted his free hand in front of him, confusing the mercenary, who hesitantly shook his hand. "Whenever our paths cross, be sure to call upon me." And with that, the hulking man turned and left the arena.

The referee walked towards the center of the arena, raising his arms to calm the patrons. "Unless there are any other challengers…" The referee announced, trailing off as his eyes scanned the crowd. "Then Leo, the sellsword, will be named champ—"

Alva felt himself be shoved forward, looking back to see that it was none other than the witch, who offered him a sly smile. The wayfaring knight knocked into the stadium railing, making a discernible sound in the silence around them. All attention fell upon him, while he heard muffled laughter behind him—Damn witch. "I will challenge for the title of champion!" The knight called, vaulting over the railing and into the arena.

Leo shook her head as the challenger approached her, planting the butt of her polearm into the ground to lean against. "I have been fighting this entire tournament, unlike you." She said, though her words lacked any anger. "Don't you think this is unfair?"

"At this point in time, I am not very concerned about fairness." Alva said with a shrug, unhooking the Murakumo from his back. "I need to win."

"I am sure you do," Leo said casually, lifting the polearm and gripping it in both hands once again. "But I have no intention of simply letting you win."

"Why do you care?" Alva asked. "What is your reason for fighting? Fame?"

"Because I am good at it."

"Begin!" The referee shouted.

The mercenary immediately charged at the wayfarer with the lucerne pointed in front of her. Alva stepped aside, retaliating with an overhead slash from the Murakumo. Leo hooked the oversized curved sword with the lucerne head, forcing the weapon aside before kicking the knight's chest. Alva fell back, quickly rolling over as the lucerne spike delved into the ground where he once was. The knight quickly stood up, only to have the butt end of the polearm smacked into his helmet, causing his ears to ring from the impact. He parried the incoming hammer from his face with the the spine of the Murokumo, before turning the weapon once again in an attempt to slash at the mercenary. Having been disoriented, he misjudged the reach of his weapon, its blade only meeting air as the woman stood just outside its range.

Zullie frowned as the two continued to fight, as it was becoming increasingly obvious who was the superior combatant. Even as tired as she was, the mercenary proved to be more skillful than the wayfaring knight, likely because she made a career out of selling her talent as a warrior, using the money she earned to continuously maintain her well-crafted gear. The mercenary's skill was a testament to her survival as a mercenary, for only the best were paid enough for the upkeep of such gear. Alva on the other hand, a seemingly well traveled adventurer, may acquire a great deal of technique and experience wandering the lands, but not quite like one who would choose to live a life between battlefields. At this rate, the wayfaring knight would inevitably lose. The witch grimaced. She couldn't allow that—to let the knight be defeated so soon. If Alva was defeated now, he will only be heckled by the others for challenging the champion, only to lose. He would be unable to ask any questions for all he would speak to would only laugh in his face. In the end, he will simply move on and continue his search for the cure to the Undead Curse elsewhere. Zullie couldn't accept that. What Alva needed was this victory so he could have the opportunity to speak to all of the patrons. They will make him drink in celebration of his triumph as champion of the tournament before relaying that they know of no such cure, for none exists. He will become disheartened as he continues to ask around until he finally loses hope—the alcohol becoming all the more enticing. And when he is most vulnerable, she will approach him. She will show him what pleasure is. He will give in to his desires and let Catarina take him. She will ruin him—everything he wanted to be, everything he thought he represented. The witch whispered words despair into the air, the magic carrying the enchanted, twisted thoughts to the woman in the arena.

Alva and Leo continued to exchange blows before the mercenary suddenly stopped. Her vision clouded as she felt an inexplicable hopelessness, urging her to give up the fight. She steeled her conscious, replacing the despondent thoughts with her will to prove her prowess, but a single moment of weakness was all Alva needed to claim victory. Knowing the belly of the blade would not be able to cut through the plate armor or even the mail hauberk underneath, the knight turned the hilt in his hand, instead attacking with the very tip of the sword. Concentrating all that power into the tip of the weapon would allow it to pierce through both. Alva dug the weapon into the mercenary's thigh, breaking through the chain mail and piercing into the flesh. Leo cried out in pain before retaliating with a thrust from the lucerne, but Alva was far too close for it to reach a high enough speed to be effective. The knight used his free hand to grapple the polearm, using his shoulder to tackle the woman into the ground and successfully wrestled the weapon out of her hands. He threw the polearm aside before standing above the woman, pointing the Murokumo down at her.

The referee approached the two before whispering to the knight. "What is your name?"

"Alva," he said before choosing to add the moniker that people began to add during his traveling days. "The Wayfarer."

The referee turned to the stadium, raising an arm in the knight's direction. "The champion of the tournament is Alva the Wayfarer!"

The entire stadium began cheering, surprising the knight. It was not as though he came from anywhere noteworthy. Perhaps they liked the idea of an unexpected challenger coming out victorious. Perhaps they had too much drink in their system to care. It was just as likely to be both. Alva hooked the Murokumo on his back before offering the mercenary a hand up. Leo lifted her visor up, giving the wayfaring knight a strange look before accepting the help, being hoisted up off the ground. "Sorry about that," Alva began. "But I told you I needed to win."

"Well, you are no pushover, that's for certain." The mercenary chuckled. "Congratulations on your victory."

"Thank you." Alva lifted his visor as well, smiling at the woman. "If you do not mind me asking—"

"Maybe not while I am bleeding, yeah?" Leo suggested, gesturing towards the wound in her leg. "Come find me during the banquet. I will answer your questions then."

"Of course," Alva nodded his understanding. "I will see you then."

Zullie watched the exchange with a frown, the raucous cheering only adding to her annoyance. What were those expressions they were sharing? It was too sympathetic after a battle. It frustrated her to no end.

* * *

In the witch's frustration, she went ahead of the knight to the banquet, choosing to drink until she stopped caring about it. She had since used her magic to make her veil and stave disappear, but they weren't truly gone. If she so chose, all she had to do was visualize them in her mind and they would reappear as she wished. Zullie rather inelegantly downed a glass of liquor in the banquet hall, wiping the liquid on her lips against the back of her hand before looking around the room. She immediately noticed the staring from many of the patrons, mostly consisting of men. Zullie made a disapproving sound to herself as she poured herself another glass, knowing full well those were lustful eyes upon her. As soon as the pointed hat was gone, she was suddenly desirable in society—to be used as a man's plaything or a woman's treat. When they were not discriminating against those less fortunate than them, they would pass the time fooling around with each other and trying to get their privates wet with anything that moved.

"What is a pretty young thing like you doing all alone?" She heard a man confidently say behind her.

Zullie rolled her eyes as she turned to face the man. "How quaint," she spoke sarcastically. "What is an ugly old man like you doing, talking to an engaged woman?" The witch downed a second glass of liquor.

The man had his mouth agape, likely because no woman had ever dared to speak like that to him before. "I—you—" He stammered.

Zullie snickered as she reached for the bottle of liquor to pour herself more, only for the man to quickly grab it before her. She watched as the man poured the rest of the drink into his mouth, sloppily gulping it as it ran down his lips and continued to drip down his chin. He slammed the bottle down onto the table in an attempt to display his dominance as he proudly stuck his chin forward. "Did you see how the drink went down my mighty throat? You are not the only one who can drink, woman."

"Yes, I am sure many things go down your _mighty throat_ ," she smirked, simply picking up another bottle off the table to refill her glass.

Her remark earned the hearty laughter of onlookers, much to the man's embarrassment. His face twisted in anger as he raised his hand to strike the witch. "Why, you—"

The man's wrist was caught by another—a mustachioed man approaching his middle ages with bushy eyebrows. "A gentleman must not raise a hand against a woman," he said jovially, though his tight grip was intimidating in it of itself. The bothersome man pulled away his arm, giving the both of them one last disapproving look before leaving.

Zullie looked up at the man who intervened curiously. She recognized his voice. "Are you Siegmeyer?"

"That's right," the man affirmed with a nod. "Didn't recognize me without my trusty armor, did you?" He laughed.

She couldn't help but laugh at the thought of the ridiculously shaped armor.

"And you must be Alva's bride!" Siegmeyer continued. "You are quite the dashing young woman."

Zullie shook her head, somewhat annoyed to hear compliments rain down on her now that the one thing she held with pride was gone. "Have you seen my fiancé?"

"Of course!" Siegmeyer affirmed. "I saw him on my way here. The fool was still wearing his armor!" He laughed heartily. "I had my family make sure he got dressed properly. You will see him in no time."

Zullie nodded her head slowly, bringing the glass to her lips, which were curled into a sly smile once again. "I can't wait."

* * *

Alva pulled at the collar of the formal attire he now adorned, feeling completely out of his element as he entered the banquet hall. "I only have to wear this for a little while," he muttered to himself as he looked around. The wayfarer was only able to take a few steps further before someone already called out to him. "Ah, champion!"

He turned to the source of the voice, only to find that multiple people had taken attention to it and immediately began scanning the room as well. Soon enough, they realized that he was the champion that was being referred to and quickly swarmed him.

"Hey, come have a drink with me!"

"Let's talk about you becoming a part of my personal guard."

"Are you spoken for?"

"Wayfarer, you must have stories to tell!"

"Slow down, people." Alva raised his hands in an attempt to calm them, making sure to not allow his annoyance come out in his tone. "I won't be drinking tonight unfortunately."

Before he could continue, many of those who surrounded him groaned. "It's a party! What do you mean you won't drink?"

"Because…" He trailed off as he searched for an acceptable excuse. "I have to take care of my fiancé. She is quite the drinker and one of us needs to be sober." They seemed to accept that, while those who wondered about his marital status had their question answered, much to their dismay. "And I suppose I have one story." Alva looked around to make sure they were listening, finding that they were quite attentive to hear what the champion had to say. "Do you know of Saint Serreta?"

"What do you take us for?" One man called out to him. "There is not a soul in all the kingdoms who wouldn't know the Saint!" Sounds of agreement were shared amongst them.

"Well, the Saint has fallen ill." Silence fell upon the group as they looked between each other, indistinct murmurs being shared all around. "She has been afflicted with the Undead Curse and I am in search of a cure. Please, if anyone knows anything at all…"

"Undead Curse?"

"I thought it was just a rumor."

"Undead? Like in folklore? In the stories, didn't they burn undead?"

"I only wanted to drink."

"This cannot be true."

"There isn't any cure, boy."

"What?" Alva frowned.

"You heard me," an older man stepped forward. "There isn't any cure."

"No," Alva shook his head in denial. "That can't be. There has to be one."

"Sorry, boy, but it is the truth." The older man shook his head sadly. "You are not the only one searching. I have met travelers like you looking for such a cure, but they all went home. You should, too, boy."

Alva paused as he looked at all the faces surrounding him—some showing sympathy, most showing their boredom on their faces, desiring only to drink. The older man shoved a bottle into his chest. "Drink up, boy. At the very least, you can relish in the nectar of the gods." The knight held the bottle shoved into his chest, watching the older man smile sympathetically before turning to leave. "Sorry, boy."

Alva looked down at the bottle as the crowd that surrounded him began to disperse, having no interest in talking to a downtrodden man. He seated himself on a bench in the corner of the banquet hall, placing his elbows on his knees, staring into the reflection of his azure eyes in the bottle. The witch had already told him that there was no such cure, yet he refused to listen. She accompanied him anyway—on his quest that he was already told was foolish—only to hear the answer he already heard.

"There's my fiancé," he heard the familiar sardonic voice say.

Alva picked his head up, his eyes falling upon the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. However, that sarcastic tone and hickory eyes were unmistakable—it was still the same witch. "It is only the two of us right now. There is no need to keep up the charade."

"No luck, I suppose?" Zullie asked, though she already knew the answer. She could see it in his eyes.

Alva shook his head solemnly, much to her delight. It took everything in her power to avoid grinning. "You were right. I'm sorry," he apologized. Zullie raised a brow. Of all things, she didn't expect the knight to show remorse particularly to her. What was he getting at? "It was narcissistic of me to think that I would be able to find a cure that even others greater than I couldn't find. I should never have pursued this quest. You did not need to lose your home."

Zullie frowned, her fingers curling into fists as her arms were crossed over her chest. Was he trying to gain her sympathy? Hickory eyes stared into azure hues, seeing a pain in them that was far too familiar to her. She quickly darted her eyes to the side, not wanting to maintain further contact as she felt a sudden weight in her chest. She let out an unsteady breath, feeling her anger and frustration waver in a single moment. She was certain of how fleeting love was. There were others in her life who thought they loved her, only to quickly toss her aside when she admitted she was a witch. They called all manners of authorities after her until she was driven away. Yet this man—who apparently holds that thing called love for this Saint—was showing remorse. Was it because he couldn't bear the thought of being unable to help to uphold his promise? Or perhaps he hated the idea of all the time he spent traveling rather than remaining at her side. Regardless, he lacked what the witch saw in every person she had ever met—the instinct to blame another. Rather, she recognized the emotion she saw in his eyes. Self-hatred.

The witch returned her gaze to the man, who returned to staring down at the unopened bottle of liquor. Instead of drinking, he took to rubbing his thumb against the etchings of the glass. "Knight."

Alva looked back up at the woman, surprised to see her hand extended towards him, raising a brow in confusion. "What is it?"

"You think to come to Catarina without offering a dance to your fiancé?" Zullie smirked.

Alva sighed, but couldn't help but smile himself. At the very least, he will allow himself to enjoy this moment before returning to the cathedral. He took her hand in his as he stood up, standing a head taller than the witch. The knight held her close as they swayed to the music of the bards, looking into the eyes of the woman who he was sure despised him. However, she looked back up at him with what seemed like compassion—no, understanding—and the slightest semblance of embarrassment. "I told you knight, that was no home."

Alva let out a soft sigh as he offered an apologetic smile. "I only mean to say that I am sorry."

"And I only mean to say not to trouble yourself." Zullie reassured as they swayed to the music with no true form. "You know, I have never danced before. I might just step on your toes."

"Not if I step on yours first," he chuckled, having never danced before either. He smiled warmly at the sound of the witch's laughter—something he didn't think to hear other than after a sarcastic comment or ridiculing another.

The witch felt a warmth rise in her face, chalking it up to the alcohol she had been consuming beforehand finally settling in her system. She looked up at the man with a sly smile, his face quickly turning red as well. "What is in your mind, knight?"

His eyes flicked away in embarrassment, bringing out another laugh from the woman before he returned his gaze to her. "I told you my name, yet you never use it."

"I could say the same to you, knight." Zullie smirked. She knew exactly why they both refused to say each other's names despite having shared them. Referring to each other as _knight_ and _witch_ kept a certain distance between them, something they both wanted. "What will you do now? You have your answer, do you not? You know for certain of the truth."

Alva remained silent as he turned his head away, looking to the chandeliers that illuminated the banquet hall in a warm golden glow. "I don't know." He uttered. He intended on going back to the cathedral and spend his time with the Saint until the very end. But he had sworn this quest on his knighthood. How could he return to her with nothing to show for it? It was pathetic. He knew for certain if he returned, she would forgive him and the servants of the cathedral would tell him it was not his fault. However, he had traveled enough lands to have a strong understanding of people. Though the Saint would forgive him, he knew he would never be able to forgive herself. Knowing Serreta, she would spend her time giving him comfort rather than caring for herself. Alva knew the servants of the cathedral, who would tell him he was not at fault, would subconsciously resent him for being unable to cure their Saint despite promising he would.

Zullie studied the knight's face as he stared distantly, his thoughts undoubtedly swarming his mind—most likely giving him even more reason to hate himself. She got what she wanted, so why did she not feel a sense of accomplishment. She did not know how to describe her feeling other than that it simply felt wrong. The witch looked down at their feet as they gently swayed side to side before purposefully placing a foot forward, stepping on the knight, nearly tripping them both. Alva quickly caught the both of them as he looked back to the witch, finding her signature sly smile across her face. "Ah, how clumsy of me."

"Lumberfoot," the knight teased, causing the witch to smile a little wider.

Zullie glanced at their surroundings, finding a door close to the center of the banquet hall. She took a step away from the knight, but kept her hand clasped around his. "Come with me, knight." She said with her almost perpetual mischievous smile.

"Where are we going?" Alva asked as he was pulled along.

"Somewhere private." She led him to the door, opening it with her other hand. The door closed behind them as they looked around the cellar that was repurposed as a study of sorts.

"Why are we here?" Alva asked as his eyes wandered, only to be pulled more roughly this time towards a table.

Zullie sat herself against the table, pulling the knight towards her once more, now holding both of his hands in hers, making sure he had nowhere else to look except in front of him. "Like what you see?"

"I—uhh," he stammered as he attempted to turn his head away, only to feel a hand on the back of his neck. "What are you doing?"

"I can do anything, knight." She whispered seductively, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him even closer to her. Alva quickly slammed a hand into the table to avoid falling on top of her when she pulled him closer without any indication, much to her amusement. "Are you finally getting assertive?" She teased.

"I am in no mood, witch." He sighed, attempting to gently pull himself away from the woman, but she refused to let him go.

"Are you still thinking about that Saint?"

She took his silence as his answer. "Forget her, knight. Forget her and you will be able to move on and live freely." Zullie wanted to ruin him. She was doing everything she had intended to do up until this moment. She was saying all the same words she had planned to make him give up. However, she didn't feel the disdain she felt earlier. She lacked the hate she felt for the knight in this moment. She saw too much of herself in his eyes when she looked at him. She just wanted him to forget the pain.

"I can't." Alva shook his head, azure hues staring into hickory.

"Forget, knight. Live like the Catarinans do and forget your troubles. Just look at me." She smiled compassionately. "Forget about her. Think about me."

Alva froze at the words—those were the exact words she said to him the night they met. His brow furrowed, causing the witch to wonder what was on his mind. He couldn't believe he allowed himself to be deceived. "You conniving witch." He muttered bitterly as he forced himself away from her.

"What?" She frowned, standing up as she crossed her arms defensively.

"You set me up!" Alva pointed at her accusingly as he began to pace. "You have been lying to me from the start!"

"What in the name of Gwyn are you talking about?" Zullie retorted, though he was right that those were her initial intentions.

"You tricked me!" Alva shouted. "You have been setting up my failure. You had no intention of truly _aiding_ me."

"Knight—" She tried to interject, only to be interrupted.

"That's why you brought us to Catarina, didn't you? You knew there was no hope of an answer here. You only wanted to make me lose hope, right? Tell me!" He roared.

"That's right!" Zullie spat back. "Your love isn't real!" She scoffed. "Look where you are. Look at just how weak you are. It was a simple matter to bring you exactly where I wanted."

Alva's face twisted in rage, restraining his urge to strike the woman. Instead, he only turned around, making his way for the door. "You're right. I was a fool to ever trust a witch. You should all burn."

Zullie found herself in a stunned silence as he pushed the door open, his footsteps heavy against the marble floor. She scowled before following behind him, blind with fury. "That's right!" She yelled after him. "I'm a witch!"

Alva turned to her, as did everyone in the banquet hall as all became silent. Zullie breathed heavily as the adrenaline ran through her, the purple pointed hat appearing on top of her head. "That's who I am," she said with a pained expression as the guards immediately began to rush to surround her.

* * *

A/N: This chapter's title is a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald's _The Great Gatsby_ , "It's a great advantage not to drink among hard drinking people."

As far as I know, there is no official map of the entire Dark Souls world and there is a lot of variance between maps drawn by fans. In the Dark Souls lore, it is difficult to gauge the exact locations of certain areas/kingdoms with the exception of the very literal Far East. Please bear with me as I try to balance out my creative freedom while also attempting to stay true to the lore.

Magic that Zullie has used in this chapter: Whisper of Despair. I know that it appears as a skull that would be casted by a stave, but I didn't quite like that, so I took the liberty of changing how the spell works.

Also, magic in Dark Souls is not as explored as I would like it to be, so just what magic is capable of is left to our imagination, which is absolutely fantastic for me.

For any readers of my other story **_The Forgotten_** , Leo made a cameo! This is who she was before being the Ashen One, meaning most of her memories from this point in time are hazy to say the least.

Thank you for reading! Until next time.


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